Percy Jackson: The Golden Pact
by Ecclipse
Summary: Perseus made a pact with Kronos, to wield his power in form of a golden scythe in exchange of sharing his mind with his. Undeterred by its creeping corruption of his body and mind. There are only two possible outcomes: either Perseus bends the weapon to his will... or the malevolent scythe consumes him completely, paving the way for the destruction of all of Olympus. ( One Shot )


Perseus stood confidently in the shadow of the land, surrounded by dead soldiers, and smiled at the irony. These triumphal arches of dark stone were raised to honor the strength of Rome-to instill fear and to demand fealty from all who passed beneath them. Now this one was a tombstone, a monument to false strength and arrogance, and a symbol of the fallen warriors' own fear turned against them.

Perseus relished fear. He counted on it. It was a weapon, and as his brothers in the past had mastered their swords and their spears, Perseus had mastered fear.

But as he felt Roman soil beneath him for the first time in years, amid the enemy soldiers slain and soon to be forgotten, there was unease. It hung in the air like the pressure before a storm, begging to be released.

Luke, Perseus's friend, reversed the grip on his blade and prepared for a more personal fight. To his credit, he almost managed to hide the tremor in his voice. "What's it going to be, brother?"

Perseus said nothing. His hands rested empty at his sides. He knew he was in control. Even so, he felt a flickering sense of déjà vu, like something out of a dream. It came in a flash, and then was gone.

A voice rose from the empty space between them-a dark and hateful voice that echoed with the pained cries of a thousand battlefields, daring each of them to act.

 **"Who will prove worthy?"**

Chiron had summoned his greatest student.

Spies of the camp had confirmed the disheartening rumors. The hated Romans had discovered an ancient scythe of Greek origin, as powerful as any magic in Olympus. A single eye of golden hate stared out from the heel of the blade, tempting the strongest of men to wield it in battle.

Evidently, none had proved worthy. All who touched it were quickly and painfully consumed by its malevolence, so it had been wrapped in chainmail and sackcloth, and secured by a guarded caravan bound for the Roman camp.

Perseus Jackson knew what would be asked of him. This would be his final test.

He had reached the outskirts of the coastal city of San Francisco before he ever considered the journey's significance. Taking the fight to the enemy in their own land was audacious. But so was Percy. There was no other who could match his talents, none to whom Chiron would entrust the fate of Camp Half-Blood, and so there could be no doubt: Perseus was destined for greatness.

He set his trap shortly before sunset. The approaching caravan was just visible in the distance, as wisps of dust rising into the orange sky-ample time to dispatch the three guards.

He moved in silence across the archway's lengthening shadow as the first guard paced out a patrol. Perseus willed his body to turn into water and stepped into the black stone wall as if it were a passage open only to him. He could see the guards in silhouette, grasping their pikes tightly with both hands.

He lunged from the edifice cloaked in shadow, and snuffed the life from the second guard with his bare hands. Before the third could even react, Perseus dissolved into tendrils of pure water and darted across the cobbled road, reforming in front of his victim. In a flash, he wrenched the man's head around, snapping his neck with ease.

The first guard heard the bodies fall, lifeless and limp, and turned toward Perseus.

The demigod smiled, taking time to relish the moment. "It paralyzes, does it not?" he hissed, slipping into the shade of the trees once more. "The fear..."

He rose from the quaking soldier's own shadow.

"This is the part where you run, Roman. Tell others what you witnessed here."

The soldier threw down his pike and sprinted for the safety of New Rome. He didn't get far.

Clad in robes every bit as dark as Percy's, Luke leapt from behind the tree and plunged his sword into the belly of the fleeing soldier. The other camper locked eyes with Perseus. "The vaunted strength of Rome? Such delusion..."

"I knew you were impetuous, brother," Perseus spat. "But this? Following me all this way, hoping to share in my glory?"

There was no time for further admonishment. They could hear the caravan of soldiers approaching.

"Get out of sight, Luke. I will deal with you later. If you survive."

The long shadows of twilight hid the bodies until the approaching soldiers were almost beneath the grand arch.

"Hold!" the first outrider cried, drawing his sword. "Fan out! Now!"

Confusion set in among the others as they left their horses and, for the first time, Perseus laid eyes on their cargo. It was just as Chiron had described-wrapped in chainmail and sackcloth and strapped to the back of a sturdy white steed.

Patience was a virtue that Luke did not possess, and he heedlessly dove for the nearest soldier. Perseus always selected his targets carefully, and so struck with precision at the lead outrider, felling him with his own sword.

He turned again to the Roman, but the scythe was gone.

No. He had come too far to fail.

"Percy!" Luke yelled as he cut down one soldier after another. "Behind you!"

A desperate Roman had freed the weapon, its golden eye now revealed and glowing with inhuman rage. The soldier's own eyes grew wide as he swung in vicious arcs at his own comrades. He was clearly not in control, trying in vain to release the scythe.

The rumors were true.

Calling again on his birthright, Perseus dove intothe writhing Roman's titan-corrupted flesh. For the briefest of moments, he saw through the eyes of this ageless being, witnessing millennia of inflicted pain and suffering, screams and lamentations. This thing was death reborn again and again. It was the purest evil, and it had to be stopped.

He burst from what was left of the Roman-the soldier's flesh having warped into scales of hardened carapace that shattered into black shards and choking dust. All that remained was the scythe, its eye now closed. Percy reached for it as Luke dispatched the last of their enemies.

"Brother, stop!" the camper cried, flicking blood from his sword. "What are you doing? You saw what it can do! It must be destroyed!"

Perseus faced him. "No. It is mine."

The two of them drew up, neither willing to back down. Beyond the city boundaries, warning bells began to toll. The moment seemed to stretch out.

Luke reversed the grip on his blade. "What's it going to be, brother?"

The scythe spoke to Perseus, then. It seemed as if it was echoing in his mind, and yet the other camper's widening eyes showed he had heard it too.

 **"Who will prove worthy?"**

Perseus conjured fingers of water that snatched up the weapon, lifting it into the night and spinning it into his waiting hands. It felt like a part of him, like it had always been a part of him, as if he alone was born to wield it. He spun it with a comfortable flourish and leveled the blade toward Luke's throat.

 **"Do what you must."**


End file.
